


Benedict Arnold Reporting For Duty, Ransom Sir

by uglywombat



Series: Love In A Time Of North Korea [3]
Category: Chris Evans (RPF), Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Banter, Explicit Language, F/M, Hate Sex, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24580210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglywombat/pseuds/uglywombat
Summary: Tequila is the enemy. It has let you down yet again and into the bed of Ransom Drysdale, your fuck-enemy. After a stirring pre-war conversation with your best friend via FaceTime and in Ransom’s fancy bath, you go into battle. It’s a shame feelings are a weapon.
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Original Female Character(s), Ransom Drysdale/Reader, Ransom Drysdale/You
Series: Love In A Time Of North Korea [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776646
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	Benedict Arnold Reporting For Duty, Ransom Sir

**Author's Note:**

> This series does not have to be read in a particular order!

“Hey, Billy, it’s me.”

“Hey it’s me, why are you whispering?”

You sigh and immediately cringe as the long-drawn sound echoes off of the marble tiles. “Billy, I did a very very bad thing and I need you to talk me out of making an equally if not worse, bad thing happen.”

You see her eyes narrow on your neck and you can’t help the rush of heat pushing against your skin. “Is that a hickey on your neck? Oh my god, are you call of shaming me?” You cringe as you hear the rustle of sheets on the other side of the door, followed by a grunt. “At least it’s a nice bathroom… oh my God you’re with him, aren’t you? You’re with Ransom.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Maybe…” your voice teeters and drifts as you pull an apologetic and shamed face. “It was an accident, I was maybe drunk and needy, and my vagina has once again let me down.”

Billy sighs and hangs her head in her hands, shaking it vigorously. You can see the cheery  **Keep Calm and Grow A Moustache** behind her glorious head of curls, haphazardly clinging to the bun she has pulled them into. Her kitchen is filled with warming natural light from the enviable arched windows. It looks so toasty and inviting, unlike the over-the-top, frigid shit-brown Italian marble surrounding you and the stone bath you are currently hiding in.

The marble in his bathroom cost more than your first car. You know this for a fact because it was the first thing Ransom mentioned as he fucked you over the disgustingly expensive countertop the first time you had made the mistake of coming over drunk. 

“I thought you weren’t going near the prick again.”

Yes, you cringe because that is exactly what you had said after Ransom had made the suggestion you maybe lay off the carbs as you rode him. “Yeah I know but I had left a really good bra by mistake and I wasn’t neglecting it for that asshole to do creepy things with it.” Silence. “And I may have been under the influence of tequila.” Again, soul destroying silence. “Oh, like you’ve never done something stupid when drunk.”

Billy scoffs. “So how was last night?” The little rise in the corner of her mouth screams of the incoming ‘I told you so’. 

“It was okay…” Billy raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. Fuck her and her impeccable eyebrows. “Ugh fine, he’s a sex god. I came four times, may have blacked out at one stage and saw heaven. Is that what you want to hear?”

Billy smirks and you internally scream, because if you actually screamed you know Ransom would storm into the pristine, soulless bathroom and just want sex again… which is in fact what you want but that is beside the point. 

“So you want me to talk you out of the hot morning sex you have playing through your head?” You can only nod. “Well, Dr Sattler,” you giggle at the nickname, “put a muzzle on Benedict Arnold, order a Lyft and get the fuck out of Stepfordville.”

Your brow furrows. “Who’s Benedict Arnold?”

“Your vagina obviously. It’s a traitor to the sensible and logistical side of your brain. Or,” she pauses, moving closer to the computer screen, “you can go back into the bedroom and fuck that sex god’s brains out and meet me later for drinks and give me all the gory details.”

You mull over the choices she has laid out before you. 

God, you know sleeping with Ransom is a bad idea. The guy is the most egotistical asshole who has ever assholed in the history of the universe. He has mommy and daddy issues that run deep in the troughs of his soul. He’s rude. He treats everyone like z-class citizens. 

But then, it’s just sex, right? And really good sex. Fucking Ransom doesn’t have to involve strings, emotions or morals. It is the best sex you’ve ever had or probably will ever experience again in your life…

“Fuck it,” you sigh, standing up in the oversized bathtub, nearly cracking your head on the marble tiles. “Meet me at Zambetti’s at 8 o’clock. Have a bottle of tequila ready.”

“Happy fucking,” Billy sings before ending your FaceTime. 

Stepping out of the bath, you help yourself to the store brand mouthwash and run your fingers through your thoroughly-fucked-and-pleased hair. You give your tired face a quick spritz with the cheap facial spray, hoping a fresh, dewy complexion will entice at least another two orgasms before you head home.

A quick underarm wash, application of deodorant and perfume, you feel a little refreshed and ready to make the most of the dreamy Californian king-sized bed with the cloud-like mattress. 

You’re careful when opening the large bathroom door, all too aware of the spine-grating grind of the hinges. 

The room is bathed in the cool, Autumn morning sun, little speckles of dust dancing in the light. Because Ransom is very very rich, something he likes to mention often, he doesn’t have curtains. He somehow has the ability to sleep through the blinding sun. 

Your stomach bubbles with excitement as you draw your eyes over the defined muscles of his bare chest, the million-count sheets just resting on top of his hips. There’s a light layer of hair on his chest and his arm his thrown over his eyes to block out the sun. 

With a smirk, you delicately get onto the bed and crawl to his side. He’s fast asleep, snoring lightly and smelling of sex as you gently pull the sheet from over his hips. His cock is already semi-hard and heavy against his muscular thigh. You lick your lips as you kneel between his thick legs, giddy with excitement. 

By God, you hate the prick, but there is something so intoxicating about the salty tang dancing on your tongue as you languidly lick his length. Yes, you have caught yourself daydreaming about the weighty feel of his cock in your mouth as you’ve sat at your desk at work, or sat in a bar on a Friday night, or as you’ve touched yourself in the shower. What of it?

The strong muscles in his thighs twitch on each side of your head as he moans deeply. You tease the head of his cock as you wrap your hand around his base, getting lost in the sight of those long, beautiful eyelashes fluttering lightly against his milky skin… 

No, concentrate. 

Slowly, you take him into your mouth, his scent so heady your head spins. He’s not only long but he’s thick and it’s taken a lot of practice to perfect your movements. And practise you were only more than willing to put in. 

You can feel Ransom begin to stir as the tip of his cock brushes the back of your throat before you draw your tongue up. You look up to see those luscious eyelashes fluttering and darkened azure eyes watching you groggily. His perfectly rosy lips smirk sleepily as he stretches. 

“Well fucking good morning, Princess. Couldn’t wait to get your hands on the merchandise, huh?” Goddamn, his voice is so fucking hot first thing in the morning, gravelled like well-worn road and deep.

You bring your lips away from him with a pop and slowly stroke him, your eyes locked on his drowsy ones as he places his arms behind his head to take in the show. 

“Firstly, I’m not your princess, you need to find another nickname. Secondly, your snoring woke me up and your lack of curtains. Seriously, if you’re so rich just buy some. I’m sure they’ll have something in your style at Pottery Barn.” He rolls his eyes and hums as you draw your thumb over his sensitive head, smearing salty pre-cum over him. “Besides, I’m just helping out with the raging hard-on you had, probably brought on by dreams you were having about destroying other people’s hopes and dreams.”

Ransom chuckles and reaches a hand out to run through your hair. “Don’t tell me you’re getting soft on me now, princess.” Your movements are slow as you look at him, confused. “Oh come on now, you’re getting feelings for me.”

You let out a roaring laugh and gently squeeze his weighty cock playfully, smiling as he groans and bucks up into your hand. “You fucking wish, you entitled piece of shit. I’d rather walk on broken glass covered in salt and vinegar every day than ever let myself fall for someone like you.” The knowing smirk irritates on his face you to no end. “You, my mortal enemy, are nothing more than a hunky piece of meat for my amusement and orgasms. This is just sex, Ransom.”

And before the stupid prick can chime in again, you take him deep in your mouth and his hands lock on your head for good measure.

It’s difficult not to succumb or lose yourself in the heady, musky scent of his body, the heat of his hands caressing your face as you suck, lick and stroke. You pretend you are not paying homage to the beauty lying before you. But God it is hard, the delicious stretch around his thick cock and salty flavour. 

You can tell he is close in the way the muscles in his thighs tense, the shortening of his raspy breath and his desperate grip on your face. 

“Fuck, Princess,” he groans painfully, “that’s it, make me come like a good girl.” 

That shouldn’t make you feel anything other than contempt or remorse for dragging your sorry ass out to Lincoln late on a Saturday night, but it’s hard to ignore the cool trail of arousal making its way down your inner thighs. 

He comes with a roar and you do your darndest to take what you can. Given that he came twice last night, you’re surprised a man of his age can still give so much. 

You flounder as you are pulled into a heated kiss and you impulsively give in, still foggy from the taste of him lingering in your mouth. And then you remember who is actually kissing you and your immediate reaction is to push him away. 

“Have you not heard of morning breath?” You snap as his hands immediately regroup on your waist.

“I have the perfect remedy for this,” Ransom smirks darkly before dropping back down onto the bed. 

Now this is more like it. You yelp as his hand grips yours and pulls you to straddle his face. Your giggle fills the room as he wraps his arms around your thighs, keeping you firmly in place as he delves in like a man starved. 

Your body quakes as he hits all the goddamn spots because the bastard is that good. Billy is right, Benedict Arnold is a traitor but perhaps sometimes sneaking into enemy territory can have its benefits. 

He fucks you furiously with his tongue as you desperately reach for the headboard for some stability, your stomach already flip-flopping as the familiar heat and bubbling build in your core. 

You can feel the bastard chuckle as you attempt to grind against his face, desperate to feel his tongue on your clit. Seriously, after the amazing blowjob you had just gifted to him on a silver platter and he has to tease? 

And then he does, licking a long, languid, and wet stripe along your folds before suckling on your clit. The vibrations of his laugh sears through your fine nerves as you mewl and cry, frantically gripping onto the fancy wooden headboard. 

Only Ransom can have you blowing your lid in under three minutes, your body literally quaking against his tongue as you see stars and galaxies. And he doesn’t let up, lapping at your lips and clit nonchalantly as you come down from your high, strong arms still wrapped around your thighs. 

Your chest heaves as you are finally granted a reprieve from his iron hold and you collapse on the bed beside him. “Fuck me.”

Ransom chuckles, his chest rumbling. He even sounds like sex. “I would, princess, but I’m going to need you to make yourself scarce. Mommy and Daddy are coming over soon.”

You snap your head to look at him incredulously. “Are you serious? You’re kicking me out right now? I can’t even take a shower?”

Sluggish azure eyes meet yours as you stare at each other. “Duty calls.”

Humiliation burns in the pit of your stomach as you stare up at the ceiling. Stupid son of a bitch. “Fuck you, Ransom.”

He sits up, his back against the wooden headboard as he watches you furiously search for your clothes and redress. You’re clearly in a huff, your movements sharp like a razor and the muffled cursing under your breath. 

“How about a rain check?” 

You stop, the shoe in your hand as you stare at him. “A rain check? A rain check…” The shoe barely misses his head and the window, landing on the bed beside him, bouncing off of the expensive headboard. “You can get fucked, Ransom. You don’t get to throw me out of your house because you’re too embarrassed for your parents to see me…” you force yourself to stand your ground though your stomach is literally doing violent somersaults, “and then ask for a penciled in booty call. Fuck you, I deserve better than that.”

Ransom gently tosses your shoe to the end of the bed, unperturbed by your outburst, grating on your already depleting sense of control. “Princess, why would I let you see my parents? We’re just fuck-enemies, remember?”

That hurts. It hurts you to the very base of your nerves. Right down to the epicentre of feelings and emotions you desperately try to avoid. 

You take a fortifying breath. “Don’t call or text me. I’m done.”

With your shoe and handbag in hand, you storm out of the bedroom and out of the ugly, mid-century manor that prick calls home and onto the cold street.

You bite back the tears as you tear out your phone and fumble for the right app. Ignoring the faint wobble in your lip, you force your shoe onto your foot and wrap your arms around your waist. 

Fucking feelings. Fucking Ransom. Just… 

You forcefully and aggressively swipe at the falling tears as an elderly couple walk post, their snooty dog giving you a dirty look as they look down on you. Fucking snooty rich people in this stupid rich part of town…

The Lyft can’t come quick enough, but you don’t allow yourself to break and crumble into you’ve stopped at the corner store to buy a bottle of wine and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. 

It’s not pretty; the ugly crying in your bathtub with a pint of ice-cream and the cheapest wine you can find. You write, edit, re-write, erase and repeat a series of abusive text messages to Ransom, but you don’t have the heart to send them. Something stops you every time your thumb hovers over send. 

And in the cold light of day, waking up in your bath Monday morning isn’t great. You make it to work by a hairsbreadth, receiving a knowing look from judgemental Kyle as he makes his way into the basement. 

Ordinarily you would air out your grievances with Cliff but there’s a particularly annoying group of elementary kids in your exhibition room and you’d rather not have to ponder your fucked up sex life in front of a bunch of kids.

You sulk for the majority of the day in the Yawkey Gallery, watching fish swim carefree through the large aquarium. They aren’t particularly colourful or pretty, actually, most of them are a little ugly, but there’s something peaceful about watching the little things move around. 

It does little to dampen the ebb and flow of acrid annoyance and self-hatred burning in your gut though. Peeved at yourself for giving in so quickly to Ransom when he cornered you in the kitchen with his honey voice and hot hands, and then allowing yourself to get so upset when the prick had kicked you out - these are not the actions of someone who doesn’t harbour feelings for the enemy. 

And there it is - that feelings word. 

Your irritated groan fills the large space and you hide your face in your lap, ignoring the concerned look of nearby patrons. Yeah, this is totally professional…

You can’t let him get under your skin like this. This casual fuck-friend-come-enemy. Sex without emotions. 

You resolve to cut ties, for your own sanity and self-preservation. You deserve more, right? More than a prick who kicks you out of his house because you’re not worthy of his parents who he doesn’t even like.

You sit up straight and tall, determined to make something productive of the remaining twenty minutes of work, when the ping of your phone draws your attention to your bag. You pull out your phone and groan loudly as your heart skips a damn beat. 

**Miss me, Princess?**

You type out a passive-aggressive response and slam your phone into the bottom of your bag. No, you’re not going to give in to his stupid little games. Another ping and you pull your phone out again. 

**Liar. Fancy a drink? I need to let off some steam.**

You stare at your phone, tempted to blow him off, ghost him like he deserves. You’re an independent woman who deserves a man who will be there emotionally and… fuck it. 

You type out:  **My place. 9pm. Don’t be an asshole.**

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is welcome!


End file.
